John for Today: Reading the Fourth Gospel

Introduction: The Puzzle of John

This book is written for two groups of people: for those who find John’s Gospel puzzling or difficult, and also for those who find it attractive and intriguing. I suspect that the first group greatly outnumbers the second. John’s Gospel is a puzzle because it is so different from Matthew, Mark and Luke, which at least have a sort of family resemblance. Why is it different, and does it matter? Is John’s Jesus just as much the real Jesus as the Jesus of the other Gospels? Does the fact of John’s difference make this Gospel more – or less – reliable than the others?

It is a puzzle, too, because there is a ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’ quality about its author. The title so familiar to us, ‘the Gospel according to John’ probably reflects a Christian guess that the author was John, son of Zebedee. But was he? The evidence is intriguing, to say the least. Chapter 2 will address this question, as well as exploring the differences between John and the other Gospels.

In this book, however, I have taken the view that that is not the best place to begin. So we begin at the beginning by looking at the author’s own prologue, his ‘programme notes’, which offer the reader an overview of the whole Gospel. The prologue also provides other perspectives on the Gospel – it is a story of a mission, a trial and of dramatic irony. Chapter 1 will explore these perspectives.

But John’s Gospel is not only puzzling; it is, for many people, difficult. Its language is so stark and uncompromising: either/or, black and white, with no shades of grey in between. It strikes a discordant note in a world which prides itself on pluralism, or on a creed of relativism which invites people to say what is true for them and to reject the possibility of universal absolutes.

John’s Gospel is difficult for modern readers in other ways. It sounds other-worldly, and seems to invite Christians to be other-worldly as well. In recent decades it has been much criticized for its alleged anti-Semitism, although ‘anti-Jewishness’ would be a better, less anachronistic term to use. Chapter 3 will seek to address these issues, together with the Gospel’s apparent exclusiveness (‘No one comes to the Father but by me’, John 14.6), and the preponderance of male imagery when it speaks of God.

But in spite of its puzzles and difficulties, this Gospel presents a remarkably attractive message. Its leading themes, recurring again and again, are light and life. Most human beings who give the matter a moment’s thought will recognize that there is something ambiguous, not fully realized, even distorted about human life; we are not as straightforward as other creatures. ‘When is a human being really a human being?’ is a question not often asked, and perhaps we are the poorer for it.

This Gospel insists that a world that neglects the divine gifts of light and life (for that is what they are) is courting destruction and death. Despite the failure of the world at large to see this, the most important issue it faces, according to John, is the truth and reality of God, the source of these gifts. In a century in which the world’s penchant for self-destruction seems greater than ever, the message of John is urgently needed.

Chapter 4 fills out the details of these overviews, and takes us to the heart of John’s message, giving due weight both to the historical foundations behind the Gospel, and to the theological ‘commentary’ which its author provides. Its four sections will guide the reader through the whole Gospel, focusing on the narrative’s central figure, Jesus.

A final chapter, Chapter 5, explores the message of John for today. It focuses primarily on the question of God in a world of sometimes conflicting religions, and on ‘the Christlike God’ which this evangelist wants us to see. But there are searching implications in this Gospel for both the Church and the world at large, and this chapter will also examine these. This chapter, like earlier ones, will suggest that it is all too easy to misread this Gospel, to the impoverishment of the Church’s witness and mission in the world. The Church, like the world at large, needs to hear afresh the message of this Gospel.

Many people know the Gospel’s most famous verse: ‘God so loved the world’ (John 3.16). The wistful question of John Betjeman’s Christmas poem comes to mind, ‘And is it true? And is it true?’ No one can prove or disprove it. But the wealth and profundity of John’s Gospel, and – despite all the difficulties – its attractiveness, draw us to the quest. I hope this book will help many people on that journey.

1

Invitation to Life: The Story of a Mission

The prologue: author’s guide to the story

If you go to see a play at the theatre, you may buy a programme in order to get a synopsis of the storyline. Of course, if the play was a ‘whodunnit’, you would hardly appreciate being told the identity of the murderer before the play had even begun. But it might be a play that you would understand better by getting beforehand an overview in the programme notes. John’s Gospel begins with that kind of synopsis. So this is the obvious place for us to begin. As we shall see, John’s prologue anticipates some of the Gospel’s major themes, and we shall explore each of them in turn in subsequent sections of this chapter. We shall look, first, at the story of a mission; second, the drama and irony of a God present but unacknowledged in the world God made, and, last, the story of a conflict and trial, due to the world’s rejection of the light. To begin with, however, we need to absorb the very informative programme notes which the author has put before us.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (1.1–5)

When the evangelist writes the word ‘God’ (theos), to what, or to whom is he referring? A few years ago a church leader was questioned about the criticisms of ‘god’ made by the author of The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins. He responded that he, too, did not believe in the god criticized by Dawkins. In a similar way, we should not assume that what John’s Gospel means by ‘God’ is what we mean. It may be that we are not clear what we mean. Christians can swing from embarrassed silence to chatter about God which is all too glib and easy (‘poor talkative Christianity’ was E. M. Forster’s gibe). Perhaps, as my college chaplain once suggested, a moratorium on the word ‘God’ might do us all good. Alternatively, we can read with fresh eyes the Gospel of John, with its story of a ‘Word’, and the mission of that Word.

Many people hear the opening verses of the Gospel (1.1–18) at Christmas. But such is their depth and power, that even several hearings or readings do not exhaust their meaning. They start where the Bible itself starts: ‘In the beginning’. But John[1] does not simply say, as the writer of Genesis does, ‘In the beginning, God . . . ’, but ‘In the beginning was the Word’. That might suggest that there were two entities (for want of a better word) before creation: God and the Word. John seems to say two opposing things: ‘the Word was with God, and the Word was God’. It is a mystery, like the mystery of ‘the Father’ and ‘the Son’ who will feature so prominently in what follows. They can be differentiated, like God and the Word, but, also like God and the Word, the Father and the Son are one (for example 10.30). So the Word is God, but not the whole of God. Does that mean the Word – and the Son – is a sort of lesser god?

In my student days, when my New Testament Greek was rather shaky, I had a doorstep conversation with a Jehovah’s Witness. (It was a reversal of the usual roles, since I was the one on the doorstep.) He tried to persuade me that the Word was only a god, as distinct from Jehovah, who alone merited a capital ‘G’. I subsequently learned that his Greek was worse than mine: the evangelist says ‘the Word was God’ (that is the only God there is).[2] And in this eternal relationship between God and God’s expression of himself in his ‘Word’, everything began.

But the opening verses say more: not only did all things have their origin through God and ‘the Word’, but what came into being was ‘life’, the kind of life which is the light of the human race (v. 4).[3] Here the programme notes introduce us to two leading themes which will stay with us all the way through the story: light and life – the two go together. But there is darkness, too (v. 5). John does not tell us where it came from. But the good news is this: the light goes on shining in the darkness, and ‘the darkness did not quench it’, neither at the beginning when God began to make a world, nor even at the hour of a crucifixion, when the darkness was at its deepest.

There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. (vv. 6–8)

The scene changes – from heaven to earth. Enter the first witness: ‘a man sent from God, whose name was John’ (v. 6). He has only one task: ‘to testify to the light’ (v. 7). Our author is careful to say that John himself was not the light. In the opening scene of the drama, John himself will say as much (1.20), and again (3.28), when questioned by his own disciples. Perhaps there were people around who were saying he was the light; the Acts of the Apostles refers to ‘disciples’, perhaps disciples of John, who had been baptized by John, but had never heard of the Holy Spirit (Acts 19.1–7). So John the Baptist in this Gospel, more even than in the other Gospels, acts in accordance with the instructions of a great conductor to his orchestra before a performance of Beethoven: ‘Gentlemen, I am nothing; you are nothing; Beethoven is everything.’

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. (vv. 9–11)

From this spotlight on one man the focus widens – to the entire kosmos (the Gospel’s word for ‘the world’). The world’s existence is marked by a deep, tragic irony. It does not acknowledge the light, utterly real and universal though that light is. The Creator (remember, ‘the Word was God’) was present in his own creation, but unrecognized; in his own realm, but unwelcomed by his own people (vv. 10–11). When was the Creator present? What is John referring to here? His language, like poetry, is multidimensional: he could be referring to all history up to now (God has always been present) or, more specifically, to the people of Israel, since ‘his own people’ could equally refer just to them, as well as to the whole world. But the writer may also mean the very specific time when he came in ‘the Word made flesh’ – to Israel and to the world. He probably wanted his readers to see all three meanings in these words. But the fundamental point stands: God was present, and people did not acknowledge him.

So there is only one true light, and its range is universal: ‘it enlightens every human being’ (v. 9). Is the light really universal, with no human being left outside its illuminating power? That is what our programme notes seem to say. This Gospel, as we shall see, is remarkably inclusive: ‘God so loved the world’ (3.16), and ‘when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself’ (12.32). At the same time, there is a decision to be made, and universal though the light is, people have preferred darkness to light (3.19).

So, in this synopsis we are reading before the drama itself begins, we could be listening to a commentary on the entire course of human history. Or, we may be reading an outline of the drama our author is about to narrate. Or, such is his skill, we could be hearing both at once. But here is one of the distinctive features of John’s Gospel: the whole world, the kosmos, is mentioned far more times than in any other New Testament book – more than in all of Paul’s letters put together. This evangelist begins with the big picture, and never lets his audience forget it for long.

But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. (vv. 12–13)

This fairly literal translation includes some difficult ideas.[4] The gift brought by the light may not at first seem very attractive to twenty-first-century people: ‘to become children of God’. What that means will become clearer as the story unfolds. But no one can achieve that for themselves or for anyone else. Becoming a child of God has nothing to do with sex, with human desire, or (in a male-dominated world) what a man might want. Only God can make someone a child of God.

And that happens when someone ‘believes in his name’. Here John is anticipating: ‘his name’ is the name of Jesus, but there is more to it than that. In almost the last occurrence of the word ‘name’ in John’s Gospel, it becomes clear that Jesus all along has been entrusted with nothing less than the divine name: God has ‘given’ his name to his Son (17.11, compare 1.18 and 14.9) and, what is more, the Son did not keep it to himself: ‘I made your name known to them, and will make it known’ (17.26). The Gospel does not explicitly identify the name of Jesus with God’s name, but it implies as much. In the Bible names are important, signifying not only identity, but character and, sometimes, power. (The name of the unregenerate Jacob, who cheated his brother Esau, meant ‘supplanter’ or ‘deceiver’ (Genesis 25.26); his new name was ‘Israel’, meaning, probably, ‘the one who strives with God’ (Genesis 32.28), and with this new name, Jacob, with a new penitence and humility, was reconciled to Esau (Genesis 33.1–16)). So God’s name means God’s power, God’s character, God’s very being. And all this Jesus has received and now reveals.

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (v. 14)

There is no verse quite like this anywhere else in the New Testament. Here is the fullest, clearest expression of what the Church was later to call ‘the incarnation’: God fully present in a human life. Other verses, such as Matthew’s reference to ‘Emmanuel . . . God is with us’ (1.23), point in the same direction, but John 1.14 comes closest to the later doctrine. In his Confessions (7.9) the fourth-century theologian Augustine of Hippo compares the opening verses of John’s Gospel with the writings of the disciples of the Greek philosopher, Plato. He tells us he found many of the same ideas in both the Gospel and the Platonists, though not in the same words. But he adds, ‘that the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, I did not read there’.

So ‘the Word’ – the very same Word which was with God at the beginning (v. 1) – took up residence ‘among us’ (v. 14), and in this human Word